


(28. Ride) / It's not about the destination

by Mothfluff



Series: GO-ctober Prompts 2019 [28]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1960s, Angst, Gen, Internal Monologue, M/M, October Prompt Challenge, One Word Prompts, the car scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-07 09:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21214061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: My attempts at an October Challenge, using the original Inktober prompts for drabbles.(Each prompt will be posted as part of a series, not chapters, so I can add tags/characters/ratings/trigger warnings for each instead of the whole she-bang)Prompt 28 - Ride“I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.” One more time, angel. For old time's sake.Aziraphale wants to say yes. Crowley's look is pleading, begging.He can't.There's more to it than a lift. They both know. There's always been more. It's not about the destination, it's about the ride. It always was.





	(28. Ride) / It's not about the destination

“I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.” _One more time, angel. For old time's sake._

Aziraphale wants to say yes. Crowley's look is pleading, begging.

He can't.

There's more to it than a lift. They both know. There's always been more. _It's not about the destination, it's about the ride. It always was._

Riding on a horse's back, arms wrapped around Crowley's waist, the side of his thigh pushing against his back, his cheek against his shoulders. The warmth of a demon, even through thick wool and leather. The tremors of a short gallop, tightening his arms around him, feeling the sinew and muscle and ribs underneath it all. There was no need to gallop, nowhere they needed to go fast in particular. Yet Crowley had sped up, taken them over uneven terrain, made the horse run and jump and sway. Aziraphale had tightened his grip, again and again, felt his cheek bump against his shoulders, and wondered if he would notice a sly grin if he could see the demon's face.

“I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.” _Let's go for a ride, like we have for years and years. Let's play our game, like we always do. Anywhere you want to go. Nowhere in particular. It's not about the destination, it's all about the ride._

Aziraphale wants to say yes.

He can't.

Sitting side by side in a carriage, warm and stuffy, knees touching, not thinking about knees touching, not moving away. A mild shuffle as they went over rocks, thighs pressing against each other, warmth seeping in through well-tailored cloth. Not moving away, even as the road evened. A quiet, closed off cabin, no one but them, and even here, neither of them says much, but what they say counts. The quiet whispers, the truth woven into polite conversation, the unspoken inbetweens they both understood. Crowley staring out of the window, Aziraphale staring at him, until a hand carefully lays on a leg and neither moved away, and Aziraphale wondered if he would notice a soft smile if he could see the demon's face.

“I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.” _Pretend this hasn't just happened. Pretend like always, like nothing is going on. It's just us two, and a ride, to nowhere, to anywhere. It's not about the destination, it's about the ride._

Screeching through London in the Bentley, long before these new-fangled cars had become common place, taking corners at speeds no human could imagine. Grasping at whatever he could to endure it, silently cursing this new invention that has brought so much distance between them on their rides. But sometimes he will miss when holding onto the seat, sometimes he will catch Crowley's shoulder instead, and neither moves, neither mentions it. And sometimes Crowley will laugh, or talk a bit too much, or hum along to a song on the radio, and Aziraphale understands the joy of the car, the safety of the little space between two seats, going so fast no one can track them. And he looks over and sees a smile on the demon's face.

There was no smile as Aziraphale had handed over the flask. There was no grin, no careful touch, no quiet understanding. There were words, at least, meaning hidden between them, a plea and a wish and a silent apology.

“I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.” _I'm sorry, and thank you, and please forgive me, and please let this be like it always was, let us be like we always were, do not let this change us. Do not let this break us like it has before._

He's just handed Crowley the worst gift in existence. He's given him the seeds of his own destruction. The thing he's been asking for since a century ago, might have wished for even longer, should have never thought of.

Tomorrow, there could be no more Crowley. Tomorrow, Aziraphale might be, for the first time in six thousand years, truly alone in the world. And it would be his fault.

He should go for a ride with him. One last time, once more unto the breach.

But what would it break this time?

He can't say yes, he does not want to say no. He wants to drive with the demon, to nowhere in particular, anywhere he wants to go. He wants to see him smile, have a chat that says more than words, an innocent touch, a moment to share.

Tomorrow, that might never happen again. Tomorrow, or in a month, or in a year. There's a flask in the back of the car, there's horror and fear and trepidation sitting on the backseat. Their safe little space, their private journey, interrupted and broken by a silently ticking bomb.

He had no choice but to give it to Crowley, and he has no choice now.

He has to say no.

It was never just about the ride. It was never just about the holy water.

It was about them, about where they were going when they went to nowhere in particular. Crowley had decided to step off the train, get out of the car, let the horse run off. He'd asked for a way out. _Insurance, in case the ride goes off the rails. _Aziraphale had given it to him. He couldn't give anything more. He'd offered everything he had.

_It's not about the destination. It's about you still being there, coming along for the ride. Nowhere in particular. A picnic, a dinner at the Ritz. Anywhere we want to go. Anywhere with you._

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

He sees him break, he hears it in his own voice. _Once more unto the breach. The ride is over._

Crowley has asked for a way out, and Aziraphale has left the car. Their little safe space drives off, and he watches it careen around the corner.

His bookshop is just around the corner as well, a stone's throw away. Where would the ride had taken them, had he not declined?

_It's not about the destination._

_Anywhere you want to go._

He doesn't know. He doesn't want to think about it. He might never know where the ride takes them again, it might never happen again. He doesn't want to think about that either.

The ride is over. The Bentley is long gone.

Crowley might be gone soon.

Aziraphale is still standing on the street.

He should have said yes.

**Author's Note:**

> Yesterday: oh, there was a word prompt? Uuuh, well, lemme shove it in somewhere  
Today: how many times can I use the prompt word before I go crazy? Is it over a dozen times?


End file.
